2AM
by j.mccarthy2009
Summary: Sherlock is bored, waiting for Moriarty to make his first move, when something happens he does not expect - Molly/Sherlock.
1. 2AM

**Just want to preface this by saying - this is my first Sherlock fic &amp; I apologize because I honestly was terrified to post this! It's not edited, just a quick oneshot to post before work today. I'm American &amp; relatively new to the fandom, so if there are any glaring errors - besides OOC, that may happen - please let me know. Thanks!**

It was positively stifling in her flat. Sherlock stumbled through the doorway and tossed the key onto the side table – didn't he tell her to change the location of the spare once he'd left three years ago? Didn't he tell her? He could have sworn he did – Molly Hooper never listened properly – but then again, his head was pounding with the memory of his last drink not thirty minutes ago so really, he could be wrong.

No. That doesn't happen. Not wrong, never wrong, just….

GOD it was hotter than hades in here. Granted it was early summer still in London and the temperatures had not gotten significantly warm but why, god, why was it sweltering in here? Sherlock loosened the top buttons of his shirt and shook his mane of curls.

Molly Hooper, where are you and why is it so HOT in here?

Sherlock eased his way from the entryway towards the kitchen, sparkling clean as always which meant there were probably takeout cartons left in the living as there usually were. Molly Hooper. Never one to cook a meal, especially not a meal for one. Sherlock sighed and continued through the kitchen to the hallway, where Molly's bedroom was on the left and the spare was on the right.

Her door was shut and Sherlock knew, judging from the lack of spare key moving like he told her, that she had not kept up with oiling the hinges on this door, the hinges that squeaked and moaned unbearably when he began his week of hiding here years ago but were quiet as a whisper by the time he'd left.

SQUEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK

Sherlock slipped inside and glanced quickly about the room: window shut tightly – Molly WHY, no wonder it is so warm in here – clothes scattered along the floor, picture frames hanging sadly on the wall – memories for Molly to stare at whilst she falls asleep at night, not many of them happy, he told her to take them down but as she's on track not to listen to one thing-

He paused and diverted his attention to the woman curled up beneath a heavy blanket, her breath even and still. How had she not woken at that god-awful door squeak?

He stumbled the few steps towards the bed and leaned over, hand over her shoulder and shaking slightly. "Molly…. Molly, wake up. This is important, Molly, wake up!"

Molly stirred slightly but did not wake. What is going on here?

Sherlock attempted to race to the other side of the bed – tripping over a lacey bit of something he didn't quite recognize – and reached the side where Molly had curled towards, every bit of her body concealed by the heavy blanket, sweat beading on her forehead.

Drugged. She must be drugged. Or poison – is she dying a slow death – the thoughts rapidly raced through Sherlock's brain, which, addled by the alcohol, was not making this an easy deduction. He knelt down next to the bed, swaying slightly, grabbing the edge of her nightstand for balance and knocking over a bottle of… What? Melatonin.

"Molly Hooper…" Sherlock reached out and shook her again, more violently, raising his voice. "Molly Hooper, you wake now. How many of these did you take? Molly!"

Molly woke now, as her eyes shot open wide and her mouth open in the shape of a scream.

Sherlock pressed his hand softly over her mouth. "Shhhhhh, Molly, it's me, it's Sherlock."

Molly stared.

"Ok… don't scream. Blink twice for me if you won't scream."

Molly blinked once, then twice.

Sherlock slowly removed his hand from her mouth but it remained open as she gaped at him.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Her eyes went to the electronic clock on her bedside table. "It's two in the morning. What… How…" She sighed, her eyes fluttering, heavy with sleep.

"I told you to move your spare Molly, I did, didn't I? Tell me I did and that you didn't listen, tell me." He needed the validation, that he was correct.

She nodded slowly. "I thought… you weren't coming back, didn't I? I did."

A piece of hair fell into her face and Sherlock reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, and softly tucked the hair back where it belonged. His hand, however, was acting of its own volition and would not move from where it rested, against her flushed cheek.

Molly stared at him, his eyes dark with concern, his hair all a frenzy as it was like to do, his body kneeled down at the side of her bed. And his hand… his hand, resting on her cheek, felt electric.

This must be a fever dream, she thought. This was not real. A dream and nothing more.

The tears came quickly in this dream. She shut her eyes once and felt a hot tear roll down her nose and drip right off the tip. And he sighed.

"Oh Molly… you're afraid." Sherlock said simply. Windows shut, air conditioning unit removed – far too easy to remove that from the outside and crawl through a hole – but key in the same place for over three years. Sherlock's hand moved again, stroking the side of her face softly. Was it concern or alcohol that propelled him forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead? "Molly Hooper… you have nothing to be afraid of…." He spoke quietly, sincerely against her skin. "I won't let anything… anything bad happen to you… ever. I promise."

This was most definitely a dream, Molly thought, smiling slightly through her tears. A sad, tragic, beautiful dream.

And in a moment, his lips and hand were gone, her eyes fluttering open again, heavily.

She sighed – letting out a small whimper at the loss of his presence – it was a dream. Just a dream.

Then next to her the mattress dipped down – what on earth – and she rolled onto her back – what is happening –

A strong arm slipped beneath her head, wrapped tightly around her shoulder and shifted her upwards, her face nestling into the curve where his shoulder met his chest.

If this was a dream, she was going to enjoy this – yes – she decided as she curled this way now, pressing her body against his, wrapping her arm across his stomach – yes, this was going to be a good dream now.

Sherlock held Molly tightly, listening as her breathing slowed and waiting as she fell back into her sleep.

And when she was asleep again and there was no one else to hear and the alcohol began its familiar blackout buzzing and he knew there was no way she – or he – would remember this in the morning, he whispered "I promise Molly Hooper…. Because… I love you."


	2. First Body

Four months.

Four months had gone by since

_"Did you miss me?"_

And nothing. Not a thing. Sherlock had been more bored during this time than any previous boring period in his life. Perhaps it was because the anticipation was so high, the idea, the notion that Moriarty could be back at all… And nothing.

So boring.

Staring at the wall was getting very annoying.

"Sherlock, dear, there you are," Mrs. Hudson said, bustling through the door to his flat, a tray with tea and biscuits in her arms.

"Here I am, yes, where else would I be Mrs. Hudson? Is there someplace I should rather be, I know where I'd rather be but that hasn't happened yet and so here I shall sit," Sherlock drolled, not moving an inch from his spot in his chair.

Mrs. Hudson set the tray down in front of him, pursing her lips. "I know you're bored Sherlock, I know, but you didn't come home til the wee hours of the morning. I was about to call the detective inspector, I was, what with things being the way they are these days."

Sherlock glanced up at Mrs. Hudson and felt a pounding behind his eyes. Last night… oh last night. Sherlock Holmes, not one to let anxiety build, popped off to the pub for a stout and some fish and chips, but it turned into quite a lot more than that, hadn't it? He recalled texting John to meet him and the several texts he sent after that, still requesting John's presence, all the while drinking more and more.

"Yes, well I attempted to meet John at a pub but I was… stood up." Sherlock sat forward and snagged a biscuit.

"Well he has a baby now, can't be expecting him to meet you out at all odd hours. He has a family Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, pausing as Sherlock winced at the word. "I'm sorry, love, but it's true. I told you, marriage will change him." She patted Sherlock's shoulder and headed back for the door where she paused next to his coat hook. "Must have been a nice pub though."

"What makes you say that?"

"Your coat, it smells like… freesia. Must have been one of those high end places," Mrs. Hudson said, trailing off as she went down the stairs.

Sherlock froze mid-biscuit-bite. Freesia. The pub he had visited had not been 'one of those high end places', in fact it was noted for being the dingiest pub in all of Westminster, attracting the lowest and most criminally inclined of all of London.

Freesia.

Ah.

Yes.

_Molly Hooper._

That had been stupid, very stupid, a mistake – no, Sherlock Holmes doesn't make mistakes – a miscalculation in judgment. Sherlock set down his biscuit and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes and trying to recall the snippets from last night. Molly had been asleep, had she woken up? Yes, she had woken and what did he say? What was said?

Sherlock's eyes popped open. Nothing. It was no use. Drinking to the capacity that he had was foolish, it dulled his memory, it made him vulnerable. No, there would simply be no drinking until something hap-

His phone buzzed with a text.

**Morgue. Now. – GL**

Oh yes, YES this was what he'd been waiting for! Sherlock swung his body out of the chair and reached his coat in two long strides and flung it dramatically over his shoulders. Let this be Moriarty –he thought – let the game begin.

"Look, Sherlock, we have a body, yes, but there's no indication that this has anything to do with Moriarty." Lestrade said as he walked with Sherlock down the corridor.

"Then why would you text me, I was busy," Sherlock said sourly. "There must have been something about this body that would make you consider-"

He cut off mid-sentence as they walked into the morgue, greeted by John Watson standing next to the body on the slab, two coffees in hand and an apologetic grin on his face.

"Watson," Sherlock said shortly, taking a coffee from his friend's hand and turning to face the body.

"Sherlock, about last night-" Lestrade gave them both a hard look, "I'm sorry, I had finally gotten to sleep and it's been ages-"

"Not to worry John, I found myself otherwise engaged last night without your company, now let's have a look at this." Sherlock nodded at Lestrade to remove the sheet covering the body – definitely against protocol as they really needed-

"Sorry I'm late," Molly said breathlessly, scurrying over to the slab. "Stop that," she said, slapping away Lestrade's hand, "you know you can't view the body without me present. Sorry I'm late, must have overslept a bit."

A melatonin bottle flashed in front of Sherlock and he bit his tongue.

"I haven't quite had a chance to look at her," Molly observed as she rolled back the sheet. "She came in last night as I was leaving, her bag of belongings is just below the tray here."

John and Lestrade both gasped as Molly pulled back the sheet; Sherlock felt his coffee slip in his fingers so he tightened his grasp so hard the lid popped off.

"Oh!" Molly said, bending down to pick up the lid. "Sherlock, what…." She followed his gaze to the body. "What is it?"

Lestrade chuffed. "Molly, really? She's the spitting image of you."

Molly moved to the side of the tray to get a better look. "Well… I guess she has the same hair color… and the same skin tone… and," she grabbed the clipboard hanging from the tray. "Similar height, weight…"

Sherlock pulled the rest of the sheet down so the body was entirely exposed. "And measurements," he mumbled.

"What?" John looked at him, startled, recalling a similar identification by measurements scenario in Sherlock's past.

"John you really are completely blind, it's not that difficult to read," Sherlock said quietly as Molly's face bloomed a deep crimson. "I am speaking generally, of course, I have never-"

"Stop." Molly said, her usually small voice coming across a tad booming. "Both of you. Yes, she looks like me, but she's not me. Do you have any more… brilliant observations about the body then Sherlock?" She stared at him, challenging.

Sherlock bent close to the body, near the shoulders, there, right there on the neck. "She was strangled. At least two weeks ago."

"But the body-" Lestrade began.

"Yes, the body would typically begin to decompose, but we have had a cold spring Gunther, as you have complained daily on twitter and thus led to the body remaining in such a state for a long period of time. See here, the bruising on her neck? Inflicted at least two weeks ago, maybe more." Sherlock stood up. "There is nothing remarkable about this body otherwise."

While the flush on Molly's face had begun to fade, Sherlock caught the disappointment in her eyes as she drew the sheet back over the body.

"This has nothing to do with Moriarty and now, besides this coffee and your feigned apology, John, this has been a waste of my time. Do try to avoid texting me for things unrelated to what is most important." Sherlock turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

**I had seriously intended for 2AM to be a one-shot, but it morphed into the plan I had for my longer story... so here you are! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm unsure about writing a case into this, as my writing is not quite as brilliant or sharp as Sherlock's wit, but I shall try. Rating AND title will likely change as this story progresses. As always, apologies for errors due to my American-ness. And thank you for all your feedback - you keep me inspired!**


	3. 2AM, again

**I really am on a roll - further chapters won't come quite this quick, but I had some downtime in between work today. Hope you enjoy and review if you like!**

John Watson stared at his friend, as he perched on the couch, sitting right up there on the back end, his bare feet on the cushions, toes tapping out some sort of pattern.

"You all right?" John asked.

Sherlock did not falter in his toe-tapping. "Why must you ask John? What could possibly lead you to deduce that something was not indeed all right?"

John sighed and returned to his laptop where a blinking cursor over a very, very blank space represented his lack-of blog. "As usual, I'm sorry I asked," he mumbled.

"Don't apologize for boring me John, just fix it."

Dr. Watson grit his teeth and bit back his retort; it would do no good to engage Sherlock in a fight, not now. Something was different about Sherlock today, something different besides the usual boredom that had set in over these months. At first John suspected he was still bitter about last night – honestly he had meant to meet Sherlock out but for the first time in so, so bloody long, he was able to get a good, solid night's sleep.

"Knock, knock," a voice called from the entryway. "I hope we're not interrupting."

Sherlock's head snapped towards the door. Oh god, now? Right now?

Mrs. Hudson entered, followed by Lestrade and Molly.

"I thought we were done for the day," Sherlock groaned, leaning back and banging his head against the wall.

Molly jumped at the noise. "Sorry, so sorry," she said chirped. "Just a little, I'm a bit, I'm-"

"You found something new regarding your doppelganger corpse and you've come to share it, I'm sure," Sherlock said, jumping down off the couch.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, tossing some photographs down on the table. "You left before we examined the Jane Doe's belongings. And we discovered something highly-"

"Disturbing." Sherlock said, flipping through the photographs, his eyes darting to Molly – who was trembling, he should really have her sit, get one of those "shock blankets" or whatever, a cup of tea-

John peered over his shoulder. "Is this-"

"Molly's sweater. Molly's sweater that she wore five weeks ago, no, more likely closer to thirty-eight days ago. That hideous beast of a sweater, those kittens knit into the pattern, don't you recall John?" Sherlock commented. Molly let out a small sob and Mrs. Hudson wrapped her arm around her.

"Oh dear, come and sit down love, come have a sit and I'll pour you some tea," said Mrs. Hudson.

John glanced down at the stained jumper in the photographs and back at Molly. "Did you notice? Anything missing, anything out of place, at all?" Molly shook her head, tears threatening to spill over. "Well, then maybe it's just a similar sweater, are you sure it's yours? Entirely sure it's yours?"

Sherlock clucked his tongue. "John, really, she dropped that red sauce on her sweater that day, right along her chest, remember we interrupted her lunch. There," he pointed to a kitten near the center of the sweater where a tinge of red was smudged. "This is her sweater, I'm sure of it."

There was clattering in the kitchen. "Best be getting something a bit stronger dear," Mrs. Hudson called. "How about some brandy?"

Molly shrugged. "I'll take whatever. What I don't understand is how my sweater was on her, whoever she is, her, her there who looks like… me."

For the second time today, Sherlock had to bite his tongue. Because you left the spare key in the same place for three years you silly girl. This was… strange. Repressing comments like this was wholly unlike him. The truth was important, sharing the facts, knowing all observations, that is what was important. So why was he not sharing this?

"Mrs. Hudson, pour a round of brandy for everyone," Sherlock motioned about the room. John just stared at him.

* * *

Many hours and many drinks later, 221B Baker Street had fallen into a peaceful bit of quiet. Lestrade and the photographs – all but one due to a sneaky Sherlock – had long gone off to home and John had returned to his screaming babe and exhausted wife. Mrs. Hudson, well, she had gone a bit overboard on serving the brandy, especially for – Sherlock stared over at the couch – Molly.

Somewhere between drunk and almost asleep, Molly was talking softly, rambling, saying things Sherlock was hardly able to focus on – his thoughts were occupied by that horrific stained kitten jumper, the spare key, unmoved from where he left it last three years ago, the frightening idea that he had been in her home and not noticed any of this.

"Sherlock, are you listening?" Molly said a bit loudly. She sat up quickly from the couch. "I need to… oh, it's two in the morning, I need to get going Sherlock, why didn't you say?" She half sat up, half rolled off the couch, stumbling for a step or two before reaching for her flats.

In a few long strides, Sherlock was at her side, steering her back away from her shoes, away from the front door. "I don't think so Ms. Hooper," he said, guiding her along the hall. "I think tonight you will stay with me."

Molly blushed a deep red for the second time that day. "Sherlock, I don't think that- appropriate- I'm fine-"

"You've had far too much to drink, your home is clearly no longer safe and I will not risk that, not tonight." Sherlock led her into his room and backed her up until the back of her knees hit the bed and she sort of fell down onto the mattress.

"Sherlock-"

"Ms. Hooper, do I need to remind you how easy it was for me to access your flat last night?"

The blush on Molly's face deepened so dark that Sherlock thought maybe he ought remind her to breathe-

"That wasn't a dream?" Molly whispered.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "No," he said as Molly threw her hands over her face and fell back into the bed, wailing. "Although it may settle you to know that the details are a bit fuzzy for me as well."

"How embarrassing, Sherlock! I'm- I didn't- Did I-?"

"Did you drool on my coat? Just a bit, easily cleaned, don't worry about the cost for cleaning."

Molly sat up suddenly. "I think I may be sick."

"Tsk, tsk, Molly you did not drink enough brandy to be sick. In addition, you ate quite a bit of the chips John ran out to get, more than your fair share, so please do lay down, you are making this process much more difficult than it needs to be." Sherlock pressed gently against Molly's shoulders, pushing her back onto the bed.

"What process? Sherlock, I-"

"The process, Ms. Hooper, of tucking you into bed." Sherlock said as Molly allowed him to take her legs and slide them onto the bed.

"Tucking me… in bed?" Molly said, unfamiliar associating such words with the man speaking them.

"Yes, you know the process, parents have been doing for this for their children for generations, I'm sure you have been tucked in once, if not hundreds of times in your life," Sherlock said as he went about pulling the blankets over Molly, pushing the blankets in tightly around her sides.

"Oh but not-"

"Your feet, yes I know Molly," Sherlock said quietly. "I recall that week we spent together as I'm sure you no doubt do, often."

There had been many times Sherlock had accessed memories of his week following the fall, memories that he had tucked away and securely hidden in Molly's lab in his Mind Palace. _What is this heat on my face_ – Sherlock thought – _this is ridiculous, feeling and looking just like Molly, no that just, that won't do_-

"Molly-" Sherlock stopped short as he saw she had fallen asleep, so quickly, so quickly as she usually does when consuming alcohol. "Oh Molly," he whispered. His body moved against his brain's better wishes, as he bent low over her and pressed his lips to her forehead.

He jerked back – what is this, this new feeling, this, dare even – emotion – rising up from somewhere deep, deep down. This emotion that felt instinctive, intuitive and fresh, just roaring straight up from inside of him. Not for the first time he felt this, but what was it? He felt like he spoke of his before…

Sherlock Holmes had to ensure Molly Hooper's safety, that he was certain of. Thus far, ugly kitten sweater on dead body and insinuated break-in at her flat, he was failing miserably. "I meant it, my promise. You matter most… my little registrar."

He hit the lights and slipped out to further examine the photograph he had lifted from Lestrade.

**Oh Sherlock, grow up and admit your feelings! - that's what I always want to shout at him, and it seems my story is going in that direction. If you liked, please review - thank you so much!**


	4. Second Body

The beep of a new text roused Sherlock from his sleep. His hand felt warm, unusually warm, as he went to draw it from – oh. His hand was resting just below Molly's chest, her own hands over his one, holding him in place. Her head was there in his lap and he suddenly felt as though he shouldn't move, shouldn't disturb how peaceful and sound Molly looked-

A phone was now ringing, a muffled ring, from somewhere by Molly's pocket. She jerked awake – "Oh, oh my god, Sherlock, I am so, so sorry," she mumbled as she scrambled away from him, stumbling off the edge of the bed, reaching into her pocket and producing her mobile. "Did I… I slept here, all night, didn't I? I'm sorry…" The phone continued to ring as Molly held it in her hand, staring apologetically at Sherlock.

"Not to worry, but please do answer that as it's a bit too early still for that shrill tone."

Molly nodded, pressing a button on her phone and holding it to her ear. "Yes? What? No, I'm-" Molly's dialogue cut short as Sherlock observed her reaction, all while reaching for his own phone on the bedside table.

**Another murder. Another doppelganger. Barts. Now. – GL**

Sherlock glanced up at Molly, now off her call. "I need to head to Barts, there's been-"

"Another murder, yes," Sherlock said, rising from the bed and smoothing out his suit. "This will still do," he said, glancing down at his clothes. He examined Molly. "You'd do better with a new jumper Molly, that one is all… sleepy."

Molly smiled slightly. "Sleepy? Sherlock-"

"It won't do to argue," he said, rifling through the second drawer in his cabinet. "Here, put this on, the color will suit you." Sherlock handed her a deep green sweater, one that he had shrunk whilst attempting to launder his own clothes once, shrunk just to the perfect size where it may hang off her small frame a bit, but just the right amount. Right amount? What was he thinking? Molly took the sweater from Sherlock and headed off to the bathroom to straighten herself.

When she came out, Sherlock turned. "Let's go get a cab-"

The words stuck in his throat. Molly had stepped out in that green sweater – his green sweater – her hair knotted loosely at the bottom of her neck, her face tinged with red – probably trying to wash her face with whatever soap was available in there – and she looked positively perfect.

"Yes, let's get a cab," she said, slipping her shoes on and grabbing her coat.

Sherlock swallowed hard as he swung his coat over his shoulders. Molly Hooper, the morning after a drunken snooze at his flat, leaving, wearing his sweater – something stirred inside him. He liked this feeling, very, very much. With the promise of a fresh corpse and a cab ride with Molly ahead, he slammed the door shut in his excitement.

* * *

John Watson and DI Lestrade stood awkwardly outside the door to the morgue, watching as Molly and Sherlock strode towards them.

"Are they-" Lestrade began.

"Not that I was aware of," John said shortly.

"Well, where is it? The body, John, let me examine the body," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together. "Two bodies in two days, I can't wait to see – is it fitting a pattern – so many months of nothing and now-" Sherlock stopped suddenly, noticing that John and Lestrade were not even looking at him, but at Molly.

"Molly," Lestrade began quietly. "You are not intended to examine this body."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I know I'm not quite dressed, but I can kip off to the locker room for a change-"

"No," John said softly. "Molly, we need you to confirm the identity of the body."

Silence fell between the small group as Molly shook her head in confusion. Finally, she spoke. "Identify the body? I don't quite understand."

Lestrade nodded towards the door. "Let's go in, shall we?"

Molly and John went inside and Sherlock made to follow, but he was met by Lestrade's palm against his chest. "Not yet Sherlock, let her do this on her own."

Sherlock frowned, being denied identifying a body, really – this was an outrage –

A cry came from inside the room and Lestrade removed his hand. Sherlock pushed past him and hurried over to the slab where Molly was standing, hands over her face, John Watson wrapping an arm around her shoulders. His first instinct was to brush his friend off her, to take Molly in his arms and quiet her crying - what? What instinct is that - there's a body there, right there - Sherlock's gaze moved from Molly's trembling figure to the body on the slab, a body that looked peculiarly like-

"It's Tom. It's him, it's definitely him," Molly sobbed into John's shoulder.

For the second time this morning, Sherlock found himself swallowing hard, but this was not for a good reason. He stared down at Tom, the Tom he had met only on a handful of occasions, never really knowing or caring to know much about him, because the more he knew, the more he deduced, the more he knew Tom was not good for Molly, not_ nearly_ good enough So he had kept all his observations and deductions to himself, especially the obvious – that Molly had found in Tom a physical representation of what she could not and did not think she could have, himself -

"Sherlock, it's strange, isn't it? Two bodies in two days, one, just like Molly, the other…" Lestrade trailed off. "What does it mean? Are you two targets?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Targets? Keep up, if we were targets, something would have already taken place, something… but what? This is Moriarty, no doubt, but what? What game is this? What was he waiting for, what finally happened, after all these months?" Lestrade opened his mouth to speak –"Don't speak, Gorman, can't you see I'm thinking."

Molly's quiet sobs slowed to quiet sniffling. "I should… I should go notify his family. That's the least I can do." She stepped away from John, wiping her eyes.

"Are you sure, someone else could do that," John said, glancing about the morgue as if he expected someone to pop up and volunteer.

"No, no it should be me. But you're right, I can't examine the body, I'll put in a switch for someone else to come shortly." Molly said, walking away.

"Take your time Molly, I want the first look," Sherlock muttered. He waited until she had fully left the morgue before throwing the sheet back – the body so fresh, brought in just an hour ago, still fully clothed. "Ah, another strangulation," Sherlock observed, moving in close to the bruises on Tom's neck. "Why, why, what is significant about these bodies, these marks…" he trailed off, moving down the body, looking for clues. "This isn't right." Sherlock said, standing up.

"What's not right?" John asked, moving in closer.

"You don't need to get any closer John, it's obvious. The clothes, brand new, there's still a sizing sticker here on the jacket – look – but if this is supposed to be me, if this is supposed to represent ME, the tie is wrong. So are the shoes, I mean really," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Two bodies. Two doppelgangers. One in Molly's clothes, the other in brand new clothes. Why."

John leaned in closer to the tie. "But here, this tie isn't new."

"What?"

"There, just on the underside, see," John lifted the tie slightly. "Is that-"

Sherlock leaned in, nose almost on top of the fabric. "Burned. Burned? Why burn the brand new tie on the new, freshly clothed corpse?" He stepped back, taking a deep breath, hands rubbing the sides of his temples. "I need a room. Not this room, not the lab-" Sherlock spun in a circle. "John, get me a room. I need to spend time in my Mind Palace."

**This is going somewhere - I promise. It's all outlined, and it's looking to be about 8 or 9 chapters. I'm hoping you're still enjoying this! Please review if you are :)**


	5. Warning

Utter chaos. Total confusion, fusing together with many voices speaking at once which, ironically, sounds like no one saying anything.

"Sherlock, here," John said, waving his friend over through the sea of hospital staff and police officers. "Where have you been? Where did you go? I went to check for you in the lab-"

Sherlock waved his friend off. "The roof, John, I went to the roof to think. The lab is too… it's Molly's place. I couldn't think as clearly there."

John frowned. "Are the two of you-"

"What is happening, John, show me." Sherlock said, not waiting for John as he swept through the morgue doors. He came to an abrupt stop just inside, John running into him from behind before stepping around.

"I was going to warn you before-"

"_What. Happened_." The words barely escaped Sherlock's locked jaw. His hands balled into fists at his sides and his insides – whirling maniacally – he was going to be sick.

At the opposite end of the morgue, the doppelganger bodies were hanging, heavy ropes tied around their necks, attached to a beam in the ceiling, their lifeless bodies swaying slightly amidst all the motion in the room. He knew – he **KNEW** – it was the Molly doppelganger and not Molly herself but _STILL_ – seeing her there, hanging by the neck, wearing… Sherlock walked closer to the body and felt the whirling in his stomach stop, replaced by a heavy feeling of falling – worse, _much worse_ than his fall from the roof – _oh God_ –

"Her lab coat. Her shoes. And that sweater," John pointed out, "all the clothing Molly was wearing this morning. Sherlock-"

Sherlock Holmes had fallen to his knees, staring helplessly up at the Molly-like body, that green sweater – his green sweater, the one that had warmed her body not only hours ago –

"John, I-"

"Can we get some water over here please, now!" John shouted at no one in particular. He knelt down next to his friend. "Sherlock, it's not her, it's not Molly-"

"Yes I can see that John, but her clothes, why are the clothes – my sweater – her lab coat – why are they here, on this body, John – WHERE IS MOLLY?" Sherlock said, shouting towards the end.

John Watson swallowed hard. "They're looking for her."

Sherlock grabbed the front of John's sweater and jerked his friend closer. "Looking for her? She's missing? John, I have a phone, you **TEXT** me in situations like this, this is, I am, I'm…" He trailed off, breathing heavily. "I'm missing something John… there's something here, here, these bodies, these doppelgangers… the clothes, the hanging…" Sherlock released John and rose to his feet, still shaking slightly. "What am I missing?"

A shrill ring tone cut through the commotion in the room. Sherlock's eyes darted to the lab coat pocket and over at John. John motioned once to Lestrade in the corner and the room quickly began to clear out.

"Everyone out – clear out into the hall, let's go, let's move!" Lestrade shouted, ushering the last of staff and policemen out the doors.

Sherlock reached into the pocket and withdrew Molly's mobile. "Caller Unknown," he muttered, pressing accept and holding the phone to his ear.

"Speaker," John hissed but Sherlock turned away from him.

"_Ah, Sherlock, my old mate. How have you been?_" the icy, drawling voice of Moriarty came through the phone.

"Where is she?"

"_Ah ah, now let's not jump ahead. That's not how you play the game, Sherlock, you know that_."

"I wasn't aware previously rules applied given the fact that you cheated," Sherlock growled.

"_We BOTH cheated Sherlock, come on, don't sound so put out_."

"Why, why did you wait so long?"

"_Oh I've been busy, sorry I haven't come out to play. Had to go pick up the pieces of what you toppled… or so thought. But you, you Sherlock… I thought I had found your weakness before, but I was so very incorrect_." Moriarty laughed and Sherlock's free hand balled so tightly into a fist that he winced. "_You see, it's not very nice to date your friend's ex, is it_?"

"What have you done with Molly? She is not a part of the game-"

"_SHE'S ALWAYS BEEN A PART OF THE GAME_," Moriarty shouted. "_Ever since you chose her to keep your secret, you, Sherlock, have implicated her as a prime piece in this game. Your queen, if you will. And you know better than to leave your queen unprotected_."

Sherlock felt the room begin to spin. **_Molly Molly Molly_**.

"_Oh don't cry about it Sherlock, you have everything you need right in front of you. And as the clock is about to strike… 7pm… you have five hours Sherlock. Goodbye_."

The line went dead.

Sherlock held the phone in front of him, staring blindly at it. The phone, clues in the phone, software, apps, maps, notes – gone – all of it. The phone was blank, wiped clean. Nothing. Moriarty was never the type to be so obvious.

With an angry roar, Sherlock pulled back and launched the phone against the wall, the plastic bits of pieces scattering haphazardly.

He was breathing heavy again but the room had stopped spinning. Things were coming into sharper focus as he turned towards the corpses.

"What was that, what happened, what did he say?" John asked.

"Five hours. And everything," Sherlock began, leaning in close to examine the Molly doppelganger, "is right here in front of us…" He stepped back and looked towards Lestrade. "Cut this one down, I need to examine it further."

"And the other?" Lestrade asked, motioning towards Tom's lifeless, hanging body.

"He's got Molly," was all Sherlock said.

* * *

"It's 11pm, Watson, what happens if we miss that deadline?" Lestrade whispered to John.

John shrugged, watching Sherlock peer into the microscope, samples of clothing, skin, bits of the plastic phone, scattered on the counter around him. "Nothing said, but I don't doubt Moriarty to do something, something at 2am.

"NOTHING." Sherlock said, swiping the microscope from the counter where it fell to the ground with a crash.

"Sherlock, watch it-" John began.

"No, John, no, time is running… out." Sherlock sighed heavily and leaned forward, head against the counter. "Lestrade, bring me the other body."

This feeling of being wrong, of being incorrect, of being nowhere near close to finding Molly, saving Molly… it was cutting deep.

* * *

"What is it about this body, what is it about this man, these clothes, WHAT." Sherlock sighed, leaning over Tom's body.

"Sherlock, it's-"

"Yes, I know bloody well what time it is John, I'm trying to **THINK** so please keep your thoughts-" Sherlock stopped suddenly. "_John_."

"That is my name, yes, and next to me is Greg, and we are simply reminding you it is 1:30am and Sherlock-"

"No, John, no you- you had it, you had it right from the start, didn't you? You did!" Sherlock spun and gathered his friend into a tight embrace.

"Ok Sherlock, you're going mad, explain yourself," John mumbled into his friend's shoulder.

Sherlock released him, a grin on his face now, ear to ear. "You said it, the first moment we saw the body, you SAW IT." Sherlock reached over and flicked Tom's tie upwards. "Brand new clothing, recently purchased, fresh, no imperfections, _save for this_."

"The burn mark, on the tie…" John said slowly, puzzling it out. "Yes, of course-"

"Can someone please explain what you're on about," Lestrade said over his long-cold cup of coffee.

"We're taking your car Greg, we're headed to the Marble Arch, and you're definitely turning on the bells and whistles! We've got thirty minutes!" Sherlock said, striding out of the room and shrugging his coat on as he walked, once again light, with a sense of purpose. _I'm coming Molly_.

John followed his friend, motioning to Lestrade. "You heard him, come on!"

Lestrade's mouth hung open. "He called me Greg."

"That's your name, now let's move!" John shouted as he exited the room.

Moment of shock over, Lestrade dumped his coffee in the bin and headed out after the duo.

**More explanation in the next chapter, I promise, but I'm sure all of you are clever enough to deduce it on your own. This story is going to end with lots of Molly/Sherlock fluff, I promise. Hope you enjoyed this chapter :)**


	6. Hanging

The lights of the squad car illuminated the near-empty streets of London, flying by at quite a pace.

"Faster, Greg, come on, we've only got-"

"Yes, John, I know, five minutes," Lestrade muttered as he pushed the car into higher gear. They were going to make it, for certain, only two streetlights away now…

Sherlock sat in the back of the car, alone, his eyes closed, trying to control that nasty beast of emotion welling up inside of him. He was, for the first time since the fall, terrified. Utterly fearful for someone he loved – no, the person he loved most – and most of all, his words and actions. If he did anything, if he slipped up even a tiny bit, Moriarty would… well Sherlock didn't care to think of what he would do.

"Oh god, oh god, Sherlock, are you seeing this?" John said from the front seat, his voice heavy with panic.

Sherlock's eyes shot open as the police car skid across the last intersection, sliding to a stop just before the Marble Arch where – oh god – _Molly_ – Sherlock jumped from the vehicle before it came to a complete stop and ran towards the white arches, the largest arch, were in the center, beneath the arch, the black chandelier, where there, hanging –

"Molly!" Sherlock shouted as he ran towards her.

She could not have been hanging there long – her legs thrashed about, her hands, tugging at the heavy rope that surrounded her neck, her face a violent shade of red, bordering on purple. With nothing to cut her down with, nothing to truly help the situation, Sherlock reached her, grabbed her legs, hoisting them up on his shoulders. If he could not cut her down immediately, this was, at least, the best he could do.

"Oh that's no fun, Sherlock," drawled a voice from the darkness. "I quite enjoyed watching her struggle. I can't believe it took you so long to figure out, tsk tsk. You're slipping mate.s" Moriarty emerged from the shadows just beyond the arch. "This is… how did you phrase it? BORING." Reaching into his suitcoat, Moriarty produced a gun, silencer attached at the tip, and pointed it at Sherlock. "Now let's watch you struggle."

Moriarty reached out to shoot; Sherlock didn't hear the gun discharge but he felt the bullet as it tore through his abdomen. Gritting his teeth, he felt himself begin to slip – but no, no he couldn't slip, he couldn't, Molly – above him she choked, hard, struggling for breath – he could NOT falter.

Laughter bounced off the marble. "Oh aren't YOU her super hero!" Moriarty chided. "This is really rather adorable, watching you both struggle now. But you know, I'm really just, I'm ready for this game to be over Sherlock. You know that feeling? There's other games out there, begging me to play. But I can't, I can't, not until this is done. Just say it, Sherlock."

Sherlock struggled for breath – where WHERE was John and Lestrade? – "Say what?"

"Ha ha! No clever come back? You must be **FEELING** it Sherlock," Moriarty giggled. "I waited, I waited so patiently, I waited until I heard you say it, and you did. You said it, seriously, come on, admit it. Say it again. And this can be over."

Brow furrowed, Sherlock tried to think. What, what, what – Molly slipped on his shoulder, her choking had quieted down and the terror gripped deep in Sherlock – she could not be dead, she could NOT because –

"COME ON Sherlock!" Moriarty waved towards Molly. "I will shoot you every 30 seconds unless you SAY IT AGAIN." He aimed.

A second bullet tore through him, this time higher up, ripping through his shoulder.

"**I LOVE HER**," Sherlock shouted, tears now rolling down his cheeks. Tears of pain, pain from the bullets mostly, but pain… the pain of admitting that love, so loudly, so openly, so honestly – brought from his lips by his worst enemy. "_I love Molly Hooper_…"

"How does that feel, Sherlock? To admit that, to admit to that one, enormous weakness?" Moriarty could hardly contain his glee, bouncing on his heels.

Sherlock's breathing was low, so low now - Molly's legs hung heavier on his shoulder – and the bullets within his body, yes, yes still there, not clean shots all the way through – were pulling him down, down to the ground.

"Fuck… you… JIM," Sherlock gurgled, his knees giving out as he tumbled down to the ground, Molly's feet slipping through his grasp, Moriarty's shout of laughter the last thing he heard before he passed out.

Moriarty's laughter, however, cut short as another figure emerged from the shadows. "Yes, James," the man said, aiming their gun at Moriarty's face, "as my brother so eloquently put it… fuck you."

One shot between the eyes, the ghost of a grin on Moriarty's face, frozen, forever, as he tumbled backwards, down to the ground. Mycroft Holmes motioned to his team, hidden away in vans and cars scattered along the street, some emerging from the park – immediately cutting down on a now-still Molly Hooper and attending to his baby brother, lying there, blood pooling on the pavement.

And there, ah, there, of course, John Watson was hurrying over to him – not Sherlock – strange he would not be there for his best friend, why is he coming to me? Oh.

John Watson pulled back and let a heavy punch land on Mycroft's face, blood spurting immediately from his nose, and, judging from the soft crunch of his fingers, he had probably very well broken one of those as well. "You son of a bitch," John yelled. "You deserve that, and much worse. How dare you hold us back-"

Mycroft held one hand to his nose and the other between him and John, as if ready for another punch to come flying. "We did what we had to do Watson," he mumbled. "I know it's not clean and it's not perfect, but we needed Moriarty. Before he could do any more damage-"

"What, and Molly Hooper? She was just collateral damage?" John Watson shook his head, glancing over at the paramedics now loading Molly and Sherlock into separate ambulances. "He is going to MURDER you when he comes to, and I'll be honest, I'm not going to stop him." With that, John jogged off towards Sherlock's ambulance, waving for them to open to the doors. "I'm coming with him," he said, climbing inside.

Mycroft Holmes stood there, blood still seeping from his nose, nodding to himself. They had gotten extremely lucky, again, at the expense of hurting someone Sherlock held dear. "We're all just… pawns in the game, Sherlock," he mumbled to himself. Yes, his brother… he would understand that.

He would have to.

**Apologies for any formatting issues - this was typed on my old laptop which is a huge pain in the ass. And LOOK! A blank review box waiting for your feedback :) Please review! **


	7. Beside Manner

_Can't. Breathe. _

Molly Hooper awoke with a jerk, gasping for air, her hands flying to her throat, trying to free herself from-

"Careful, careful," a voice beside her bed spoke, soothingly, a large, warm hand reaching out to hers and moving her hands down from her throat. "You're still very sore."

A wave of dizziness washed over her and she squinted into the shadows beside her bed. "Who are you, what… what am I doing here? How did I get here?" Panic laced her small voice. She tried to remember, tried to think, what had happened? She remembered the lab, everything going hazy, dark… and waking up with a heavy rope secured tightly around her neck… the chair, the chair that her feet had been tip-toeing on, slipping, gone-

She closed her eyes, hot tears rolling down her cheeks.

The person next to her bed sighed, the hands now brushing her cheeks, a pad of a thumb wiping away at her tears.

"You're safe now Molly, I've got you, I'm not… I'm not going anywhere." The person shifted and Molly could hear them grimace in pain.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

He leaned closer to the bed, his face entering the light streaming in from the window to the hallway. His hand moved from her face, down to her hand, his warm fingers interlacing with hers. He didn't speak but he didn't have to; Molly could see it in his eyes – pain, fear, darkness echoing from somewhere deep inside.

"Oh Sherlock, you're in pain!" Molly said hoarsely. Her throat, yes, better to talk softly. She lowered her voice more to a whisper. "What happened?"

"My brother and his flair for dramatics again," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Shhhh, Molly, you're not supposed to speak." He shifted in the wiry hospital chair and leaned closer to her, his elbows resting on the bed beside her, his other hand now rubbing small circles on her arm. "It was-"

"Moriarty," Molly said quietly. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. "He, he took me, he took me and strung me up Sherlock, didn't he? That wasn't a nightmare, was it?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, smirking. "What did I say about speaking Molly? Let me… let me speak, let me try to explain."

Molly shook her head, the tears spilling over once more. "I know what you're going to say, Sherlock, and this is not… this is not your fault."

Sherlock stared at her, at his brave, fragile little pathologist. His. He had no right to claim her, none at all. "Molly, this happened because of… Moriarty was watching me, he was waiting, he was waiting for me to slip up."

"Slip up? I don't understand," she whispered as Sherlock wiped away these new tears.

"Do you remember Molly? A few nights prior? Do you remember when I came to you?"

Silence fell between them. Molly closed her eyes – she had thought that was a dream, a wonderful, blissful dream, Sherlock coming to her in the night, protecting her, wrapping his arms around her – "That was real?"

Sherlock tutted. "Do you dream about me quite often Molly? For that to seem like a normal evening for you?"

She opened her eyes to find him smiling at her. Heat flooded her cheeks. "No- well, I mean yes- Sherlock, I….I…." she floundered for words, finally sighing and admitting, "Well you know how I feel about you, it's not entirely out of the ordinary."

Sherlock gripped her hand tighter. "Do you remember what I said that night?" He shook his head, answering for her. "No, you couldn't possibly, I waited until you had fallen asleep but that… that doesn't matter. He was watching. He was listening. He was waiting, all these months, waiting for me to… expose, quite possibly, my biggest weakness."

Molly's eyes widened, her voice raising beyond her control. "Sherlock Holmes, did you store drugs in my flat?" She coughed then, the hacking making the pressure tighten around her throat once more and she found herself gasping for air.

He had shifted again, moving from the chair to the bed, leaning over her, brushing the hair away from her face, stroking her cheeks with his long fingers… "Molly Hooper, you know full well I am clean," he said as her breathing resumed to somewhat normal. "Though this is something of an addiction, I must confess…"

She peered up at him. "What was he waiting for?"

The words were hard for Sherlock to voice, she could tell by the way his lips trembled – Sherlock Holmes, trembling to speak? – she felt a pain in her chest, an ache for him in this moment.

"Love, Molly," he said, whispering. "Moriarty was waiting for me to expose what he, and, up until last night, I considered to be my greatness weakness. It had always been so easy for me, so easy to scoff at those who found comfort in sentiment, I had denied myself… love, for so long." He took a deep breath. "But you… Molly Hooper… you have fought and scratched your way into my heart, the likes of which I never expected or wanted to experience in my life."

Molly's heart was pounding – she was very aware that Sherlock had his grip on her hand, his fingers on her wrist, detecting her pulse. "What happened Sherlock? What happened that night?" This moment was already too much for her – too much? No, just what she had been dreaming and wishing for, for so many years – dare she hope he would say it?

"I… I love you, Molly Hooper. I told you that night, after you had fallen asleep, after I…" Sherlock glanced away.

Molly reached her free hand, weakly, to his face, guiding him back to her. "Sherlock," she sighed, surprised to feel a tear there, on his cheek. He turned back to her – had she ever seen Sherlock cry before? He blinked hard and another tear fell to her bedspread.

"Just after I promised to protect you, Molly. I promised to protect you and this," he glanced around her, the hospital room, the bed, the IV dripping beside her, the needle buried in her forearm, easing her pain. "This is what happens. This is what happens when I love, Molly. This is what happens to the people…" He took a deep breath. "This is what happens to the person I love most in the world. I can't, I won't forgive myself for this Molly."

How many times had Molly dreamt of this moment? Though it certainly didn't involve her in pain, in the hospital, with a crying Sherlock finally admitting to his feelings – he had feelings! – double heaped with guilt.

"Sherlock," Molly began, trying to sit up. Sherlock reached out quickly, a hand on her shoulder, his face twisting in pain.

"You should lay down-"

"Sherlock Holmes, you are, you're hurt!" She was trying to shout but it came out as a heavy, hoarse whisper. "Your bandaged, Sherlock, and you're bleeding!"

Sherlock glanced down – beneath his coat, his hospital gown was tinged with blood where his bandages very clearly needed a changing. He sighed and waved. "I must be getting back to my room then, it's just across the hall, don't worry Molly, I have a very good view into your room here through my window." He slipped down off her bed. "And remember, you must refrain from talking, whether you want to yell at me or confess your equally painful admittance of love for me."

Molly's mouth hung open in shock – yes, yes she wanted to yell at him and to punch him – though not where he was injured – maybe another slap for good measure – but yes, yes she wanted to tell him how much she loved him, for how long, and every other bit in between.

Sherlock leaned over her, pressing his lips softly to here forehead. "There's a mobile on your bedside table, it's completely secure. Text me," Sherlock said against her skin.

He turned to leave and felt her hand tug at his.

She crooked her finger at him, beckoning.

He leaned down again, closer to her face, closer to her lips – Molly slipped forward and pressed her lips to his. Albeit slightly dry and chapped, Sherlock sighed against her lips.

Sentiment did not feel quite as bad as he had expected. Well, gunshot wounds aside and all things considered, this reward was well worth the pain.

**Sorry for the wait on this chapter - I was enjoying a bit of a lazy holiday weekend - and reading a lot of great fics as well. I hope this was worth the wait! Ugh. Did I say 8 or 9 chapters? I promise I will wrap it up next chapter with a lot of lovely, fluffy goodness. Did you like this chapter? Please please review if you did - look how lonely and empty that review box looks! XXX**


	8. Waking Up

**Thank you all for you very kind, generous reviews! I had a lovely time writing my first Sherlock FF and an even lovelier time writing Sherlock &amp; Molly. I hope you enjoy the conclusion.**

The next time Molly Hooper awoke, she was tucked into a bed in an unfamiliar room. Definitely not still in the hospital, but definitely not home… She blinked several times, trying to remember…

'I love you Molly Hooper.'

She closed her eyes, enjoying, possibly for the first time, those butterflies tossing about inside her. It had been real, all of it – the nightmare part of it she would revisit another time (perhaps) – but it had been real, Sherlock's… confession to her. Was that last night? She opened her eyes and looked about for a clock or a phone or something she could check the time and date-

The door to the right of the bed swung open and Sherlock swept in. "Ah, good, you're awake. I heard you-"

Molly cleared her throat, which seemed to be very dry, though much less sore than she had recalled when she had first awoke. "How could you? I hardly blinked," she said, coughing immediately after – damn her throat.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. "Sit up Molly, I have some water here for you. You're going to need this," he said as she sat up in the bed, gratefully accepting the glass of water from him.

She downed the entire glass in one-two-three large gulps and handed the glass back to him. "Thank you," she said softly.

Sherlock set the glass on the bedside table and looked back at her, his expression softening. "I'm sorry, Molly, that… that what happened-"

"Happened," Molly interrupted. "What happened _happened_, Sherlock, and yes, it was awful and horrible but all things considered… it wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to me in the world."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You were hung by the neck, Molly. You were hung by the neck and two innocent people, one of them being your former fiancé, were killed, don't you-" He stopped short as he saw the tears, once more, in her eyes.

"I know that, Sherlock, I do, I'm just… not ready to face that, not yet. Please not yet." Molly buried her face in her hands, wishing she had that butterfly feeling back instead of this gutted one.

She felt the bed shift and, in a peculiarly familiar way, Sherlock scooted onto the bed next to her, the length of his body outmeasuring hers, his arms wrapping their way around her shaking shoulders. She felt his warm breath against her ear, turning her shakes into shivers.

"I am truly terrible at this," Sherlock murmured against her ear, holding her closely. "I tried to warn you, Molly Hooper. I tried to show you time and again that I was… not a good man for you. I can't act right, I can't… do the right things, or say the right things… I hope you'll forgive me… now. And always."

Molly looked up from her hands, Sherlock's face so very close in this position.

"You know I always have, Sherlock," she whispered. "I always have and I always will."

Sherlock leaned in, one hand wrapping around the back of Molly's neck, and pulled her close, his lips slanting over hers. It began soft but Molly could not help herself; she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him closer, tentatively running her tongue along his lips, begging for him to – oh yes, yes like that, she thought as Sherlock parted his lips, moaning softly into hers.

It was another few moments before they parted for air, Sherlock's curls all tangled thanks to Molly's incessant tugging, Molly's cheeks flushed the most delicate shade of pink.

"Sherlock, you've left the kettle on too long and- OH," John Watson slammed through the bedroom door, causing Molly and Sherlock to jump even further apart.

"While you no longer reside here, John, I would assume the understood common rule of knocking before entering is still in place, universally," Sherlock said while stroking Molly's hair. "Yes, the kettle, please get the tea and biscuits ready, I should think it's time for Molly to rejoin the world of the living. I mean, sorry-"

"No, you're right Sherlock," Molly nodded. "I should get up, move about, I must have been sleeping for ages. I don't even remember coming here…"

Sherlock hopped off the bed and slid out the door. "Be right back," he shouted as he exited.

Molly pushed the blanket off and settled herself at the edge of the bed. She was wearing, to her surprise, her usual night shirt-

"He carried you," John said quietly. Molly glanced up, surprised he was still there.

"What?"

"He carried you, Sherlock," John nodded towards the door. "From the hospital, to the cab, from the cab, up the stairs… He took great care of you." John smiled. "Though absolutely against my medical advice, no offense Molly, but seeing as he was shot twice… well, Sherlock will do as Sherlock does."

"What are you still doing here? Tea, biscuits," Sherlock said, re-entering the room carrying a long, fluffy robe. "And I will keep my promise of 'having a lie down' after we get settled in the front room."

John left the room and Sherlock stood before Molly, holding his hand out. "Use me for balance," he said as she slipped her hand in his and stood, slightly unsteady on her feet. Sherlock fluffed the robe out over her shoulders, helping her put it on, tying the belt that went around her waist. "Do you like this? I bought three, well, Mrs. Hudson bought three, this was the fluffiest one she could find-"

Sherlock was silenced by Molly losing her footing, falling onto his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck for balance.

"Meow." Molly glanced down to see Toby slinking between their legs.

"You brought Toby?" Molly said, laughter bubbling up in her voice.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"You went to my flat, somewhere between saving my life, getting shot and being hospitalized… to get my cat and my night shirt?" Molly asked again, disbelieving.

Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, drawing her up as high as she could stand. "I have been, quite honestly, the most massive twat, Molly." She could not contain the bark of laughter at his choice of words. He carried on. "I need you to be comfortable here. I need you to _want_ to be here. I need you to want to be here, to be here with me, to… want to be with me. I thought these things might help." He rubbed her back, stroking the soft plush of the robe. "These last few days… it's been like waking up. Waking up and seeing the world in a way it was meant to be seen, a way I had long put past me. I was wrong."

"Sherlock Holmes," Molly sighed. "For so long I wondered how and why I let you into my life, into my heart, so many times, failing miserably… This is… you are…" She was sputtering now, looking up at him looking down at her, concerned. "Oh, shut up," she mumbled to herself. "Just kiss me."

No comeback, no snide remarks, no quips needed; Sherlock kissed her, hard, taking what he had once deleted from his life – love – and welcoming it back with open arms.

A quick motion and- "Sherlock!" Molly said, loudly, not quite shouting, the laughter back in her voice. "What are you doing? I am perfectly capable-"

Sherlock swept Molly off her feet – literally – and headed towards the front room.

"Honestly, are we going to argue when I do this? I'm starting to like these grand gestures," Sherlock grinned.

**I hope you have enjoyed this little chapter fic - which evolved from some very kind reception to my first ever oneshot. This will not be my last Sherlolly fic, I promise. If you liked, pretty please leave me a note below! Thank YOU!**


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